


Before the Never: saving Branwen

by depresane



Series: Vissenvaib the Gorion's Blunderer [2]
Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Canon Related, Short, ghost - Freeform, petrification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 02:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15940358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/depresane/pseuds/depresane
Summary: Vissie sees a petrified cleric. You will definitely believe what happens next.





	Before the Never: saving Branwen

Many attractions are expected at carnivals: foreign animals, illusionists, acrobats; however, sculptures usually belong in museums and mansions. Zeke thought otherwise when he had found a tall, muscular cleric, frozen in time as she was in the middle of swinging her one-handed hammer. Moving her from place to place caused much trouble and resulted in injuries of the carnival staff, and yet Zeke insisted, hoping for additional profit.  
Many witnesses are expected at carnivals: peasants, artisans, averagely wealthy nobility; but one young half-elf burst with offence, waving her arms with wide sleeves of her robe like a rooster defending its pride.  
“If you have the scroll, why haven’t you used it yourself?! No, wait, I think I know: ‘cause you have no empathy! You could damage her on your way to another city! She could have returned to her life and keep helping people! But nooo, you care only about your pocket!”  
The halfling stared at the woman, neither intimidated nor aggressive, “Just say you’re not paying and walk away.”  
“Oh, obviously I’m not paying you! But I’m getting the scroll from Nashkel and de-hexing her myself!”  
Zeke blinked with no reply. The half-elf turned around both awkwardly and dramatically, trotting away.  
Then – a man passed her from behind and bent, failing to tug a sachet from her belt. She glared at him, yelled an “eep,” and slapped his arm repeatedly. A ginger human joined her, threatening the pick-pocketer with a dagger. His eyes popped out as he released the tiny bag.  
“Guards!,” shouted the half-elf.  
“Blimey,” whispered the man and fled.  
“Yeah, that’s right, fly! What an absolute audacity.”  
“Told ya, Vissie,” commented the ginger woman.  
“Indeed. Let’s get out of here.”

Early evening. The duo was walking along a road, a river to their left, a row of houses to their right.  
“Are you even certain that’s a woman turned to stone?,” the companion asked Vissenvaib.  
“Yes. Hair gives it away, most of the time. The hair on sculptures is shaped as a collective. When a person is petrified, each single hair, including eyebrows, eyelashes, arm hair and all that stuff turns to very, very thin stone. And that’s why it infuriates me even more that the _prick_ over there was dragging her all over the place. First breaks the hair, then fingers. We must save her.”  
“Aaand if the hair does get broken…?”  
“It’s tougher to identify the victims, to tell them apart…,” she paused, gazing to the right.  
They were close to the Temple of Helm, which had a cemetery in the front yard. A ghost of a slim dog awoke from a tiny grave in a corner. A guardian of the dead.  
But for Vissenvaib it was the best adult puppy in the area, and the most deserving of praise. She walked towards it, reaching out, speaking softly in Rashemi, “Pĭeshĭooo… Kokhane pĭeshĭo, a ĭakĭe kraaasneee…”  
The “pupper” jumped twice from joy. The half-elf squatted and tried to scratch its smooth head. Her fingertips went through ectoplasm, which felt like a flame of a candle, except cold; the dog didn’t mind that, wiggling its short tail and partially closing its eyes.  
She smiled, “You’re doing a _great_ job, doggy; yes, you’re so caring and kind.”  
After that, she gently held its jaw between her hands.  
“Even though you didn’t choose this duty, you’re very good at it, very devoted, very caring; keep it up. Such a good pupper.”  
Its eyes glistened as if it really needed to hear those words and wanted to thank the stranger. At least, that is how Vissenvaib interpreted the quick glow.  
She caught the companion’s giggle with her right ear. “Alright, I need to go now. Stay good,” she patted it one last time.

To Zeke’s dismay, the duo returned in the early morning.  
“Where am I going to find another living sculpture?,” he whined.  
“I don’t know, maybe get the opposite scroll and turn yourself,” Vissenvaib blurted out, ready to cast the spell.  
“How dare you!”  
“Oh, I _do_ dare ‘cause you’re not worth my naïveté. And maybe stand back, her memories are stuck at whatever she wanted to attack.”  
She took a breath and pointed to the petrified victim with the scroll. Without reading it, she spoke, “Le yn bren ker nesh bren quess ni aegis. Khol lor faen!”  
The paper shone and shattered, slipping from her grasp and projecting itself onto the stone. Colours shifted, whirled like paint and restored themselves, revealing a blonde human with ash wood skin and hide armour. As Vissie predicted, the woman resumed her swing, her right foot sinking in soil from impact.  
“ **You deceiver!!** ,” her yell came deep from her throat. It took her a moment to realise the threat was gone. She lowered the hammer and looked around, barely believing in what occurred. “He hexed me. Crippling coward, he’s hexed me. Where am I?”  
“The Sword Coast, next to Nashkel,” answered the ginger companion and lent her a waterskin.  
“I see,” she nodded, took a sip, and gave back the container. “By the ice breath of Auril. I’m feeling a flush of warmth all over my body, ugh, it aches,” she rubbed her forearm, “Huh,” then stopped, rubbed the other arm and stopped again, “Wh-why are they so smooth?”  
The half-elf growled at Zeke.


End file.
